This is not a country for the old or the young. Opportunity and abundance: poorly made promises that break before they come clattering off conveyor belts, that rot before they can be loaded into baskets. The young are names inside foil hearts tacked on a schoolroom wall, outlines on the floor where they crouched and bent their heads to the linoleum heart of this country. Don't say apple or flag or Thanks- giving. This country is becoming the loneliest country in the world. It is the smell of floors bleached after a rain of blood, the blind heat of hatred strung like lights in dance halls, incandescent as bullets boiled in a crucible of darkness. Just like in Stockton and Watsonville, the old washed the dirt of farms from their hands, put on their finest threads. If this was their only defiance, let it have been the moon they skated on, the pulse of a little joy that throbbed in their temples before the end.